


Tied String Around Our Fingers To Remember To Be Brave

by sleepingheartsawake



Category: Selfie (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingheartsawake/pseuds/sleepingheartsawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Selfie. Henry and Eliza. He stares at her. “Let me get this straight. You are sad because I might clean the floor if we ever went clubbing together,” he says. She leans closer. “Exactly.” Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tied String Around Our Fingers To Remember To Be Brave

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Title is from “Tethered” by Sleeping at Last. Heading below is from Joseph Arthur’s “Honey and the Moon.” Don’t own Selfie or any of the characters. I haven’t written anything in a long time, but I don’t know. There’s something about this show that has inspired me.

|| and right now, all your dreams are waking up ||

.

.

.

  
In the end, or the beginning really, she knocks on his door.

  
And when he doesn’t answer right away, she texts him.

  
Multiple times.

  
Then she resorts again to knocking. Loudly.

  
Finally his door opens. His hair is sticking up and he’s in his pajamas (a matching set of course) and he looks only mildly annoyed. Mildly. She’s calling this progress.

  
He shakes his head when he sees her. “What?”

  
She pushes past him.

  
“Please come in,” he mumbles, in that oh-so-happy-Henry way.

  
“What did you do to me?” she asks.

  
“Huh?”

  
“What. Did. You. Do.” She repeats.

  
He pinches the bridge of his nose and his face contorts up in that certain way and her chest contracts just a bit and what is happening to her?

  
“I thought we were working on clarity of speech. Without the hashtags, please,” he warns before she can continue.

  
“I was out with the girls, no, not these girls,” she says, gesturing to her chest, “the ones from work, because I am this close to being in the inner oval--”

  
“Circle,” he corrects.

  
“--and my favorite song came on and we were all just dancing together and it was so easy and I snapped a pic and put it on facebook and then I realized that like all of my photos recently are of me and you and this one wasn’t and then I got sad. Me. Sad. On a Friday night thinking about you here all alone, probably asleep by 7:30--”

  
“It was 8:45, thank you very much.”

  
“--and I realized that like I wanted you to be with me. Although I know that’s totally not even close to your scene, like you’d probably try to clean up all the spilled beer on the floor with those special bleachy wipes that you just happen to have in your back pocket, because _cleanliness always needs to be a priority, Eliza_ , and really Henry who does that?”

  
She finally pauses to take a breath.

  
He stares at her.

  
“Let me get this straight. You are sad because I might clean the floor if we ever went clubbing together,” he says.

  
She leans closer. “Exactly.”

  
He shakes his head and starts walking towards his door.

  
“So, what? That’s it?” she says.

  
“What did you expect?” he asks.

  
She looks down and wrings her hands together. And then stares at the ceiling. And the floor again.

  
And for the first time ever, he realizes that she’s nervous. Eliza Dooley is nervous. If he hadn’t sworn off of facebook forever, he would have had to document this. Future generations would need to know.

  
Finally she sighs. “Whatevski. I wanted you to be with me. Or wanted me to be with you. Or something,” she says.

  
He shrugs. “Okay, you want to spend more time together.”

  
“That’s just it. We spend like tons of time together. You taught me how to cook chicken--”

  
“Thaw chicken. I taught you how to thaw chicken. We didn’t get to the cooking part because you got too impatient and ordered takeout,” he interrupts.

  
“Fine, _thaw_ chicken. Why would I need to see you more? God, it’s like I’m addicted or something.” Her eyes grow wide as she processes the words that just came out of her mouth.

  
He smirks and crosses his arms over his chest. “Addicted, huh?”

  
She moves towards the door. “I’m drunk,” she states.

  
But he shakes his head. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you drunk. This isn’t it.”

  
She holds up three fingers. “I plead the fifth.”

  
He reaches over and lowers her hand. “That’s the sign for the boy scouts.”

  
She doesn’t pull her hand away though.

  
There it is again. That invisible thing that feels a lot like something neither of them is ready to name.

  
She eventually meets his eyes and says, “Henry?”

  
“Yeah?”

  
“Don’t stop eating lunch with me, okay?”

  
And he understands. He’s her first real, breathing, actual friend. And even though this thing is definitely there, and he’s not sure it’s going to go away and he definitely doesn’t think it’s going to decrease in any way, he is her friend first. So even though the thing is there (and let it be decreed that hereafter it shall always be known as ‘the thing’), and they both know it will need to be addressed eventually, they are here. They are friends.

  
She leaves after a moment, with one truth pounding in both of their minds: _this is the start._

.

.

.

She ignores him Monday at work.

  
He decides that either she’s really freaked out or she’s just reverting back to her mostly-self-absorbed self.

   
It’s the first one. She knows he can tell something’s up. But she doesn’t know what to say or how to act and he’s a guy. This has never happened to her before. She always knows how to act in front of guys, always knows whether she needs be J. Law or J. Lo to get their attention. But this is Henry and she can’t _want_ to get his attention, right? Why is she even thinking this?

  
So she continues ignoring him.

  
By Thursday, he’s done. He walks right up to her desk and doesn’t even knock on her cubicle, even though good manners are always a sign of respect for the people around you, because frankly, he’s a little mad. She showed up at his apartment, not the other way around. Did she forget that?

  
But when her eyes meet his, she looks legitimately scared of him, of what he might say.

  
“You know, it gets a little lonely eating over that garbage can by myself,” he says, his anger mostly dissipating at the sight of her panic.

  
And she realizes he is giving her an out.

  
“Been trying out my own can for a bit. But, it’s lacking a certain sparkle,” she says.

  
He smiles, because of course her garbage can would need to have sparkle. Of course.

  
“I’ll be there today,” she says.

  
He nods, stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away.

.

.

.

  
After that, it’s routine again.

  
He bounces pitches off of her and corrects her grammar.

  
She tags him on facebook as ‘Mr. Miyagi’ (“He’s not even Korean!” he states. “You’re not on facebook so what does it matter?” she asks and he stares incredulously at her).

  
She tells him to throw out the tie he is wearing (“I love this tie!” he insists. But she walks up to him and gently unties it before stepping over to the shredder and feeding it through. He looks on in horror and she starts to feel bad. When did that start happening? After lunch, he opens a small box on his desk to find a brand new tie. He’s never met anyone who apologies through garments, but then again, he’s never met anyone like her).

  
He teaches her how to make Jiffy Pop on _Game of Thrones_ night at his apartment, and yes, they have a _Game of Thrones_ night at his apartment, so what, it doesn’t mean anything, okay (“This was like the original arm workout, right?” she asks as she furiously shakes the pan over his stove. It burns and she adds two more gym appointments to her calendar in frustration. He eats it anyway for reasons he’d rather not think of).

  
She always sits next to him at meetings so they can pass notes back and forth like they are in middle school (Sometimes he has to be careful not to laugh out loud at her comments, and sometimes he does laugh and they get caught. Twice. But Saperstein just chalks it up to his “power couple” and gives them the finger guns. They awkwardly give finger guns back and yeah, they are definitely talking about this later).

  
And later means pizza at her apartment because she did double the gym time this week (“Stupid Jiffy Pop,” she murmurs) and they laugh and talk and he recommends a book for her to read and she actually pulls out her phone to write a note to herself to check it out and somehow it feels like a really important moment. She never takes his educational suggestions seriously but here they are.

  
He almost brings up ‘the thing’ again, because it feels like every small interaction they’ve had recently has been making ‘the thing’ grow and stretch and evolve into something new.

  
But then he thinks of her terrified expression and those lunches he stood over his garbage can alone (yes, he stood there by himself each day for the whole hour) and thinks some things maybe are better left unsaid.

.

.

.

Until she spends the night at his apartment.

  
She didn’t even mean to. (Right?)

  
He had been working on a new birth control pitch and was just not getting it and she insisted that she could help.

  
“You don’t know women,” she states when he tells her of his problem.

  
“I can’t even begin to explain to you how offensive that is,” he insists, but she gives him the look. _The look that every sane person on this planet gave Kanye when he hooked up with Kim Kardashian_ says the voice in his head that sounds eerily like it belongs to the redhead standing in front of him. He cannot believe he’s begun comparing his life to the Kardashians. He can’t believe he knows who the Kardashians are.

  
“I’ll be over at seven,” she says, which in Eliza time means sometime between nine and eleven.

  
So he’s more than a little surprised when she arrives at ten to eight.

  
She holds up a bag of DVDs. “Research,” she says.

  
“You mean--”

  
“That’s right, my friend. All-night movie marathon. I am going to get you so inside the minds of the laaa-dies that I am going to have to stop you from buying tampons and taking advantage of the forty-percent-off sale at Victoria’s Secret. I’m gonna have to cancel your subscription to Cosmo. I’m gonna have to wipe T. Swift’s new album right off of your iPod. If you would ever own something other than a-tracks, of course.”

  
“I’m scared?” he offers, ignoring her wrong terminology of eight-tracks. He only listens to vinyl anyway, geesh.

  
She grins, an honest-to-God, hurt-your-face, see-every-molar kind of grin. “Good.”

  
They make it through _Sleepless in Seattle_ and _The Notebook_ and are halfway through _When Harry Met Sally_ when he looks over and sees her asleep on his couch. He momentarily thinks of shutting off the TV and going to bed, but he ends up staying where he is, because really, he just has to know: Can men and women be friends?

  
As Harry is making that final sprint towards Sally on New Year’s Eve, he has his answer and can’t help the little cheer that escapes his throat, because the two of them are just MFEO (he knows what that means now, okay?). She stirs briefly next to him but doesn’t wake.

  
The credits roll and he looks at her. She’s so . . . quiet when she sleeps. She’s never quiet. It’s actually a bit unsettling.

  
And she’s beautiful when she’s quiet. He can admit that (to himself at least). He thinks that he could get used to the sight before him.

  
He pulls a blanket out of his linen closet and wraps it around her and shuts off the light.

  
Hours later she wakes with a start, and it only takes her a brief moment to recognize where she is.

  
She’s been spending so much time here lately and its Henry’s. It’s comfortable. But still, she gathers her shoes and purse and her movies and begins the tiptoe that she’s perfected during so many morning-afters. She’s almost to the door when--

  
“You’re seriously sneaking out?”

  
She stops and turns around. “Hiya,” she says.

  
“Good morning,” he counters.

  
“I really need to go.”

  
“Have breakfast with me,” he says.

  
She narrows her eyes and he looks anxious and she doesn’t know why, but she wants to make that look go away, so she says, “Okay?”

  
He makes pancakes and she makes smoothies (because really, the only appliance in her kitchen is a Vitamix, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t know how to make the best smoothie this side of Jamba Juice, because she totally does) and they eat in silence as he reads the paper that he has delivered to his door. Like someone actually shows up outside his door every morning to drop off this inky black and white monstrosity of murder reports and political scandal and he paws through it, as if they are somehow transported back to 1993, before the internet existed. She’s in awe of his paper for a solid minute before turning back to her phone. He has some light jazz playing in the background and yeah, it’s easy.

  
She . . . likes it.

  
She looks up and the sun is streaming through the windows just right so that he actually looks like he’s glowing a bit and yeah, she likes him.

  
Her brain tosses that thought around, turning it inside out, switching around the letters and then holding them still. She likes him. And for some reason that doesn’t scare her like it did before. It doesn’t make her palms clammy (gross) or the back of her knees sweat (eww). But it does make her heart speed up a little. And the corners of mouth turn up too.

  
“What are you smiling at?” he asks, not even looking up from his paper.

  
“Oh, uh, looks like Selena and Justin broke up again,” she says, holding up her phone, knowing that he won’t look too close.

  
“Gomez needs to move on already,” he comments, turning back to the Business section.

  
“Aww, my little grasshopper, you know who that is and that she needs to bail on her relationship. You’re all grown up,” she says, leaning over to ruffle his hair.

  
“Yes, we’re all so proud of my accomplishments,” he says, deadpanned.

  
She pours him more coffee and then some for herself and maybe sits a little closer to him than before.

.

.

.

So she has this theory about him.

  
He’s usually straight up vanilla, right, but deep down, she’s pretty sure he has a dark chocolate layer.

  
Like this whole other person who is excited and passionate and just wants to have fun. But he has buried that guy so deep that she doesn’t even know how to begin setting him free, and honestly, she’s not sure if she wants to let this current version of him go. She likes current Henry. Sure, he could use a little polish in certain areas: those sweater vests mostly need to go die and he never eats anything with Red Dye 40, whatever that is, and does he even own a pair of sweats? She’s not convinced. But really, those are all minor things.

  
(Frankly, she could use some polish too. But she suspects he might like her anyway.)

  
But she also _wants_ to believe he’s got this person inside of him. That if he’s got this person inside of him, this slightly alternative reality of himself, then maybe she’s got someone different inside of her. Someone better, really.

  
She sees glimpses of that dark chocolate guy every so often, like when she gets to his apartment and sees him dancing around his kitchen to some old-timey soul music (he really needs to own a song from this century) before he realizes that she’s there and stops abruptly, running his fingers through his hair and asking how she’d like her tea, like he doesn’t already know that tea is a drink for old ladies and the Dutchess Kate.

  
Or when he stands in line forever to get good seats for the new Hobbit movie. Because you don’t stand in the cold to watch three-plus hours of little furry people roaming around New Zealand unless you are passionate about it, right? Like for real. Why else would you subject yourself to that kind of torture?

  
Or that time she caught him sketching little pictures of Joan and Larry during those duller than C-SPAN weekly staff meetings Saperstein makes them sit through. He looked embarrassed but then she opened her birthday present from him a week later to find a short comic entitled “The Misadventures of Scary Larry and Wonder Joan,” in which the fearsome duo fight against crimes of the office. . . and of the heart. And the best part? “The Fridge Bandit,” who wreaks havoc on Scary Larry and Wonder Joan’s orderly workplace and snooze-fest relationships was totally based on her. She’s not saying it’s the best present she’s ever been given, but . . . yeah, it is.

  
She sees that guy sometimes.

  
And the strange thing is that she lets him see glimpses of herself too.

  
Like the time he shows up to her apartment and she lets him in without worrying about doing her hair. Or putting her makeup on. Or showering. She had just woken up. But he doesn’t comment on her messy bun or her clean face or her oversized sweatshirt. He just looks into her eyes and talks.

  
And she tells him of the day her dad left. It doesn’t mean anything really. Dads leave all the time. He doesn’t hug her or anything awkward like that, but just nods and sits with her and for once, she doesn’t feel the need to fill every inch of the silence.

  
She let him win their tenth round of foosball because she suspects he wasn’t used to losing, although, honestly, neither was she. But he was getting so frustrated and while it was pretty hilarious at first, she could tell that he was completely stumped over this game for fourth graders. (It’s tiny men on sticks and a ball--she’s not sure what there is to figure out, but she purposely misses that shot anyway.) When he finally wins, he actually raises his arms in triumph and offers to buy the next round and she decides that she likes doing things for other people. For him. It feels good.

  
Maybe she’s getting there.

.

.

.

Somehow, he actually convinces her to go to the Saturday market with him.

"It's a market."

  
“Mmhmm.”

  
“On Saturday.”

  
“Right.”

  
“Early Saturday. Before-noon Saturday. When-I-should-be-sleeping Saturday.”

  
“Yes. . .”

  
“You want me to give up precious hours of sleep, sleep where I spend quality time reversing the aging process and recovering from the week’s very stressful routine of meetings and sales calls and creepy old man customers, to go buy tangerines and wheat with you? On a Saturday. When is my skin going to be restored to its natural glow, Henry? When?”

  
He ignores her question. “Technically, we’d be purchasing oranges or maybe grapefruits. Tangerines aren’t in season for at least two more months.”

  
She narrows her eyes and stomps away, but lo and behold, she is outside his door at eight o’ clock sharp.

  
He hands her a coffee and she says, “I still hate you.”

  
“Nice to see you too.”

  
“What’s so great about this place, anyway?” she asks as they roam the pathways of vendors.

  
“I come here most weekends and this? This, Eliza, is life at its finest,” he states.

  
“Really? ‘Cause it looks like homemade scarves and weird cheeses I’ve never heard of to me,” she counters, absentmindedly lacing her fingers through some hanging crocheted blankets.

  
“It’s people making their living and loving what they are doing and it’s us joining with them at the start of the day to say, ‘Sure I’ll buy some tapioca, why not?’”

  
She stares at him as if he’s grown two heads and maybe he has, but after all of this, after ‘the thing’ and her constant poking and prodding into his life, after the Jiffy Pop and the finger guns, and after that day she brought an extra granola bar because he mentioned that he would have to try the one she was eating sometime, granola bars that he might stock up on now because he knows she’ll be at his place at some point every week, he’s realized something.

  
She has wedged her way into every corner of his life, except maybe this one, and he decides that he wants her here too. For the same reason she knocked on his door after a night out with the girls (a reason she probably didn’t even recognize then), he decides that wherever he is, she should be too. Wherever she is, he should be too.

  
And maybe it’s really that simple.

  
So he tells her.

  
“Simple, huh?” she says, not quite meeting his eyes when he finishes, his words washing over her as she repeats them in her mind.

  
“Yeah,” he says softly, but with confidence.

  
She gives him a small smile and turns to keep moving. He hurries along next to her, squinting into the sun.

  
And after a moment, her hand reaches for his and neither of them says anything, as they continue walking.

.

.

.

Neither will point out that she made the first move at that moment, although this is an argument they’ll have later.

  
“I said something, so I made the first move,” he’ll insist.

  
“Actions speak louder than words, Hen-e-ry,” she’ll say, breaking his name into three syllables, the way she’ll always do when she’s mad at him, but not really.

  
“Oh and you always want actions, do you?” he’ll counter.

  
“If I hadn’t done something, we’d still be at that stupid market dancing around each other like Josh and Donna on _The West Wing_ , forever stuck in that ridiculous love square,” she’ll respond.

  
“First of all, never insult the Saturday market. And second, it’s a love triangle and we’re only on season five of _The Wing_ so just be patient, because you might be surprised at the outcome,” he’ll state.

  
She’ll raise an eyebrow, because it will have taken so much convincing for her to sit down and watch _The Wing_ as he’ll call it (she’ll roll her eyes) and then she will and she’ll kind of love it, but never give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  
“Well maybe we should watch some more, then,” she’ll say.

  
“Maybe we should,” he’ll respond and they’ll both stand there a bit awkwardly when they realize they’re arguing over the same thing and he’ll walk over to put the disc into the player, but not before stopping to quickly kiss her, burying his hands into her hair as he pulls her closer.

  
She’ll still close her eyes when he kisses her, even though it will have been happening for over a year at that point.

  
And he’ll still have to catch his breath a bit as he walks away, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  
Some things will never change.

.

.

.

|| End ||


End file.
